Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1)

by Lydia Michaels

  “Who’s the fuckin’ father?” Callan snarled, ready to kill.

  She scowled at him. “Who do ye think? It’s Rhys’s.”

  He glared at his friend, forgetting all the sentimental whispering Innis and Rhys shared only minutes ago. “Ye touched her?”

  Innis caught Callan’s hands, jerking his attention back to her. “I named her Uma, after Ma.” A smile trembled to her lips, and she glanced behind her to Rhys. “And she’s got wild green eyes like her da.”

  Wrenching his hands free, his fist flew into Rhys’s face, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

  “Callan!” She shouted, following Rhys to the ground, catching his face in her hands. “Rhys!”

  He groaned, still in shock, and she glared up at Callan.

  “What did ye hit him for, ye doaty bassa? You’re twice his size!”

  Callan rolled his eyes. “It’s what he deserves for puttin’ his hands on ye! Pregnant? Christ, Innis! How did ye expect us to take care of a baby on top of everything else?”

  The scowl she sent him could have chiseled glass. “I figured it dinnae much matter. Since bein’ abducted, and tortured, and seein’ my brother thrown off a bridge in a sack while I screamed in horror... Havin’ the screams slapped out of me...” Her shoulders moved with each heavy breath. “Well, I guess by then I thought, just havin’ some wee piece of what my life used te be, somethin’ good, and pure, somethin’ tha’ only knew love... Something tha’ gave me a reason te keep on breathin’... Well, I guess I figured it dinnae much matter what you thought.”

  By the time she finished, she was standing at her full height, glaring up at him with stone cold fury.

  He swallowed hard, his head dropping in shame. “If...” He cleared his throat when his voice failed to make a sound. “If I’d known ye were here, I would have come for ye.”

  “I know ye would have. But ye dinnae. I was here six miserable months before I had her, and the mornin’ my water broke, I prayed I’d die in labor.”

  His heart shattered, the fractured pieces withering to dust and blowing through the tired bones of his hollow chest.

  “But then I held her in my arms, and I felt stronger than I had in ... ever. I found the strength te keep breathing, te stop fightin’ a battle I’d never win. All my energy went into protectin’ her. My daughter.” She glanced at both of them and took a step back. “She’s my first and last loyalty in this world, and I’ll not let either of ye put her in harm’s way. I’ll fight ye with everything I’ve got if it means keepin’ her safe.”

  He mistook her for a victim when he first saw her here. But now her strength filled the room. This was no longer his sweet, wee sister, but a fierce woman who chose courage in the face of fear and, despite everything, she still stood proud.

  He regretted ever doubting her ability to handle things he clearly could not.

  Dropping his head and his voice, he softened. “I’m proud of ye, Innis.”

  “I don’t need yer pride. I need ye te leave here before it’s too late. Let me handle everything else my way. I know how te maneuver Rory.”

  “I cannae do tha’.” She was so strong, and he hated to clip her wings, but it was for the best. “We can get you and the wain someplace safe.”

  She took a sharp step back, closer to the door. Her head shook. “Why can ye not trust me te know what’s best here?”

  “What you’re suggesting is insane. This place is poisoned.”

  Her eyes flicked to the door. “He’s coming.”

  He paused, hearing nothing. Then... Distant footfalls—softer than those of a man wearing boots. “We’ll protect ye and the baby, Innis.”

  “I’m not leaving ye here with my child,” Rhys said, his mouth a hard line of determination.

  Callan shot him an incredulous look. The second Rhys agreed to stay with her she’d feel vindicated. “No,” Callan argued. “You’re leaving with her. I’ll follow.”

  “We’ll figure out a different plan,” Rhys argued. “I’m staying.”

  Everything was crumbling around them. “No one’s stayin’ here,” he hissed.

  The steps drew closer. Panic flashed in her eye just before a mask of tranquility fell into place.

  He wasnae sure how she did it. It was like watching her disappear, turn into an inanimate object. Human and then ... vacant.

  The door pushed open, and Rory appeared. “Did we have a nice reunion?” He held out a hand, palm up, and Innis, once again, draped her fingers across his. The side of his mouth curled into a smile, overflowing with conceit.

  It would be so easy to snap his neck. But guards were everywhere, and they had no weapons. Callan’s knuckles popped, his hands twitched with the urge to maim.

  “MacGregor?” He pulled Innis to his side, combing a hand through her dark hair that tumbled down her back and arms. “Do we have an agreement?”

  “Aye. I’ll do the job ye want. But I ask that ye set Innis and the baby free.”

  “Trinket’s always been free to leave.” His fingers slowly coiled around her hair, the strands raveling around his knuckles like a boxer tapes his hands. “The wain, however...” His taunting gaze drifted to the other side of the room where Rhys seethed. “She looks to me as a father.”

  Rhys lunged forward, and Callan caught his shoulder, hauling him back. “You’re not the child’s father!”

  A placid grin matched Rory’s flat eyes. “The child stays.” He yanked his hand free from Innis’s hair with enough force to make her flinch. He shoved her aside. “Perhaps I need to find a new toy—less ... damaged. Maybe you should go, and Uma and I will find a better mommy.”

  Innis notably trembled, her hair a shiny curtain of black as she turned her gaze away. This was how he got her absolute obedience.

  “No,” Callan said, saving her the humiliation. “She stays where the child stays, or none of us stay.”

  “So be it.” He clicked a finger at Innis as if she was nothing more than a dog. “Go away.”

  The sight of her cowering transformation disturbed him to the core. His list of those needing to be saved continued to grow. A foolish friend who put them in harm’s way, a terrorized sister, and a baby. He dinnae care about saving himself, but he’d see to it that they were able to get away from here. With or without him.

  He was indeed the pelican. His heart bled for those he loved. But before the last drop of life escaped him, he’d be gouging out Rory’s eyes and feeding them to him with a chaser of his balls.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Saratoga Springs, New York—America

  Present Day

  The water sloshed in the tub, leaving Emery painfully aware of how quiet the house was. She should have put music on. She’d taken an extra-long shower, but still hadn’t felt clean, so she decided to take a bath as well.

  The thought of drowning flitted across her mind—by accident—but also on purpose.

  The low rumble of Callan’s voice penetrated the wall, at odds with the silence. She never had male guests. Who was he talking to?

  Of all the times she fantasized about Callan’s first visit to her home, none of them came remarkably close to this. More tears. Her raw eyes burned from leaking.

  Her shoulders sank under the surface. Water lapped at her jaw.

  She blinked like a gator in the bayou. Waiting. But for what? Strength? She had no power. She was not the predator, only the prey.

  “Em’ry?” The muffled voice preceded the rap of his knuckles on the door. Her body jerked painfully to attention, emerging from the blanketing water. “Ye all right in there?”

  “I—I’ll be out in a minute.” Drops of lukewarm water gathered on her pruned skin, and she shivered.

  “No rush. Just checkin’.”

  Gratitude for his presence warmed her. “Did... Did you make your call?”

  Who did he phone? A friend? A lover? A roommate? Someone had been expecting him if he needed to let them know he’d been detained by a terrified co-worker.

&nb
sp; “Aye.” The floorboards in the hall creaked. “I’ll be just out here if ye need anything.”

  “O—okay.” She could hear him hesitate before walking away.

  Keeping her hand elevated, she dropped her face under the surface, muffling all sound until her lungs burned for breath. A piercing calm punctured the panic, and she considered letting go and swallowing a lungful of water.

  Not realizing she’d made a decision to live, her gasps filled the silent bathroom as she caught her breath. Living had never been so exhausting.

  Climbing out of the tub and drying off with only one functioning hand proved more challenging than expected. Winded, she haphazardly tied her robe and sat on the lowered toilet seat, combing her hair.

  The backs of her thighs hurt. Her scalp hurt. Her face hurt. Her gums hurt. Her hands and ankles hurt. Her insides hurt. And her heart hurt.

  She shut her eyes, willing all the hurt away. If she focused hard enough she might escape it, be able to stop feeling it for a few seconds like when Callan had said those prayers.

  Her eyes opened, and she gasped. A tangled nest of hair wrapped around the teeth of her comb, enough to shoot a jolt of alarm through her system.

  She ran a hand through her hair, and more damp strands pulled free, weaving between her fingers. “Oh, my God.”

  She got up too fast, pulling her tender insides. Mopping the condensation off the mirror, she stared at her scalp through the foggy glass. No bald patches, but the more she fussed, the more strands fell out, dropping to the porcelain sink like lost wishes into a well.

  Panicked, she gathered the evidence and shoved it into the wastebasket. Those weightless strands tipped the scales of her sanity.

  Bruises would heal, and the worst of her injuries were on the inside, but her hair was her shield. It would take months—years—to grow back.

  Was this the result of stress or more proof she’d been violated? How many more marks would she wear?

  Her gaze dropped to her hands. One casted and wrapped in a Price Chopper grocery bag. The other wearing a sad manicure with two broken nails.

  Her name mocked her as she read it off the hospital bracelet still circling her wrist. Who was Emery Tanner?

  Certainly not me...

  She searched the medicine cabinet for scissors, but couldn’t hold them in her broken hand. She used her teeth to tug the bracelet off, but it only added to the marks on her body.

  “Damn it.”

  She needed sleep. And vitamins. And a new body. And a new life. But mostly sleep.

  Callan sat silently in the living room, his profile outlined by the mid-afternoon light seeping through the curtains. His head bowed in pensive thought as his elbows braced over his knees. He looked as tired as she felt, but his exhaustion seemed collected over years where hers was still brand new.

  As she studied his stunning size and wide physique, she examined her feelings for him. No fear. His strength called to her but didn’t frighten her.

  Something silent and tortured pressed like an invisible weight into his broad shoulders. What would it be like to soothe away that unseen ache? What would he do if she touched him?

  What would she do if she touched him?

  Her mind slammed down a wall. Maybe she made a sound, because his head lifted, turning to face her.

  Sorrow swamped her. Grief for an opportunity lost. She might always want him, but everything inside of her said she’d never have him. Her obstacles were bigger now, far beyond silly shyness.

  Like an egg cracked open, she seeped messiness that could never be put back. Cracks and pieces so fragile the lightest touch could turn her to dust.

  She wanted him. Loved him. But would never have him.

  Broken.

  All the hunger remained, but her appetite disappeared. The thought of lying next to a man, opening herself up, letting her vulnerable underbelly show, turned her stomach. She was a starving man with his lips sewn shut. A pianist without her hands. A woman violated.

  Raped.

  She’d been raped.

  The full extent of the word stabbed into her. Each letter a little sharper than before. The pointed meaning a dagger in her mind.

  Flinching away from the knifing truth before it gutted her, she buried the reality behind the hurt, stuffed it down angrily, but on the outside, she didn’t make a sound.

  Just Emery. She just wanted to be the old Emery, not this new, broken version incapable of hosting the slightest intimate thought.

  Her hand lifted, and she looked at Callan. “Can you help me cut this off?” Yes. Normal. As soon as that bracelet disappeared all traces would be gone.

  That was a lie. The cast, the bruises, her hair...

  I just want the fucking bracelet off!

  “Please,” she choked, and he stood.

  “Do ye feel better from yer shower, love?”

  No. She nodded.

  She followed him into the kitchen and watched silently as he unraveled the plastic bag from her casted hand, still wet with drops. He used a steak knife to cut away the hospital bracelet.

  Her eyes stared at it, resting on top of the garbage in the can. Items she’d thrown away yesterday, before...

  Once again her name mocked her. Gone to the trash. Wasted.

  She flinched as he came up behind her. He rarely touched her, but sometimes his presence carried more weight than any physical contact could.

  “Ye should sleep.”

  Funny how sometimes the motions got lost in the ordinary pattern of things. Next thing she knew, she lay in her bed, covers drawn to her chin, Max, her stuffed dog, wedged under her arm. She blinked up at Callan, wondering what he thought of all this.

  Would he ever see her as a woman again and not some shattered, sharp edge left behind, a broken piece of what once was whole? Did it matter?

  “Try te get some rest,” he whispered, leaning down to shut off the bedside lamp.

  I love you... I have for years. I love the way you’re looking at me now, but I hate whatever you see... But... I love you.

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  His brow creased. “What did you want me te know?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” I would have loved you deeper than any woman should. But I can’t now. “Just ... thank you. For being here. For staying.”

  She blinked, her eyes so heavy she missed the moment he left the room.

  Sometime later she awoke and the sun no longer filtered through the drapes. When she got up to get a drink of water, Callan’s form carved a lump on her couch. She tiptoed closer, barely breathing, and watched him sleep.

  Time moved like fog, rolling more than ticking, passing but never lifting until it was suddenly clear and she stood at the coffee pot staring out the window the following morning. Callan was in her house. How bizarre. How awkward.

  The necessity of his presence was inescapable. His reason for being here taunted her, as if making a mockery of her fragile little crush while the circumstances of reality pulverized her. He was here, but not the way she wanted him.

  Did she want anything anymore?

  They danced around each other in an awkward ballet of surreal circumstances for most of the morning. How long could they hide like this, pretending he didn’t have better things to do?

  They struggled to talk about normal topics, their crude insignificance paling in comparison to her situation. But they both avoided the reason he’d slept over.

  Mute. Her life played like a familiar movie without sound, and no matter how she puzzled over it, she couldn’t guess the words.

  But they were there, ringing in her head. She just didn’t want to voice them.

  “You should probably go.”

  He stilled as if the same thought had been taunting him all morning. They both knew he couldn’t stay. Maybe he’d wanted to leave hours ago, and her pitiful silence held him hostage. She couldn’t take advantage of him any more than she already had.

  “I really appreciate your staying
with me last night. I’m better now.” A lie.

  When she was a little girl, her gran had bought her a paint spinner. You poured globs of paint in the center of a paper in whatever colors you liked, then you shut the lid and turned it on. The puddles of paint spiraled into an instant work of art that one could just as easily call a disaster.

  She’d been spinning for almost two days. Two days that moved with the speed of shifting continents, yet filled her with sickening dizziness. Her pretty world just a spatter. A disaster.

  Who was she kidding? Those paintings were lies. Their messiness a far cry from an accidental work of art. They were trash.

  “I don’t mind keepin’ ye company.”

  A splatter couldn’t spin back into a blob. “That’s okay. I think I need to be alone for a while.”

  She wanted to roll in the ugly. Drown in it. Swallow it down until it suffocated her. Spin until there was nothing left, until all the colors blended to black.

  There was truth in the pain, honesty in the hurt. She’d been trying not to face it head-on. Trying to hold herself together when everything inside of her wanted to spin out of control. But it would feel so good to let go.

  Shut the lid and let it spin into a splatter of shit. Let the ugly seep out. Fall apart. Fall and never get up.

  With unspoken doubts and false promises that she felt stronger than she was, Emery walked him to the door.

  He crushed his wool coat in his fists as he stared back at her from the other side of the threshold. She couldn’t bear the look in his eyes, couldn’t bear the thought that he might see through her façade to all the ugliness hidden below.

  “Th—thanks again.”

  “Em’ry...” Concern carved deep lines of worry into his brow. “Let me—”

  “Goodbye, Callan.” She closed the door with a shaky hand and locked it behind him, swallowing a breath before it turned into a sob.

  The sound of silence bludgeoned her ears. The sudden emptiness of her home choked her like water filling her lungs.

  She passed through the house like a ghost, her fingers tracing familiar relics of her life. The paper bag from the clinic crinkled as she removed the bottle of pills. If she took enough, she’d sleep, maybe suffocate on her own pain if they upset her stomach again.